


Whatever You Ask For (That's What I'll Be)

by septemberprudence



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septemberprudence/pseuds/septemberprudence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max's father only wants the best for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Ask For (That's What I'll Be)

Max could hear them, his father and Tost. He hung back in the room that led on to the outdoor area, listening. There were other people around, most of them staring pointedly at their phones, trying to pretend there was nothing going on. No one looked at Max, but he didn't mind. 

He was used to it. His father only wanted the best for him, and Max understood that sometimes meant conflict. Whatever was necessary, his father always said, and Max could see the wisdom in that.

By the time they arrived back at their hotel room later that evening, Max was exhausted, but still ready for whatever would be asked of him. He paused as the door clicked shut behind him.

He could tell his father was still furious, but he could also tell that it was mostly directed at the team, not Max. But even if the fault wasn't his, the fact was that the race hadn't gone according to plan, and a bad race required consequences. Max had learned the importance of consequences.

His father nodded at him shortly, and Max quickly took off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on a nearby dresser. As soon as he was done, his father took hold of his shoulders, turning him around roughly. Max was careful to relax, be as loose as he could, as his father didn't tolerate even the slightest resistance. He was pushed closer to the wall, arms raised over his head to lean against it, his palms braced against the surface to take his body's weight. His feet were kicked further apart, and his hips pulled back enough that his ass was sticking out.

His father ran his hands slowly down Max's sides, caressing over his ribs as Max inhaled and exhaled, waiting for the first hit, his body tense with anticipation. When he was younger and more foolish, he would have begged, said _please_ , wanting it so bad he could barely stand to wait, but now he was stronger, more patient.

The blow finally came, forceful and stinging, and Max bit his lip, breathing out, relief and comfort flooding over him. Sometimes his father would use his belt, which could be better or worse, depending on the mood, but this evening it was his hand, powerfully relentless as it raised and fell over Max's ass.

 _I don't do this because I enjoy it_ , his father used to tell him. _I do it for your own good_. But he hadn't said that in a long time. Neither of them bothered to pretend anymore that they didn't like it.

Every so often, his father would pause, pinching and squeezing along the places each strike had landed on Max's skin. Max didn't react, even though tears were streaming down his face and his cock was so hard it almost hurt more than his ass. He knew this was a test, and he wanted to show that he could pass, that he'd earned it. All Max had ever wanted was to make his father proud.

There were more slaps, more touches, until his father finally stepped back, satisfied. "Get on the bed," he said, calmly. "Face down."

Max did as asked, laying himself out carefully, resting his head on his folded arms, spreading his legs behind him, leaving room. He felt the mattress move as his father knelt between his thighs, and then there was the sound of a belt being unbuckled, a zipper being unfastened. One hand held Max's still tender ass wide and two thick, slicked up fingers roughly entered him.

The prep was only ever a formality now, as Max had been taught long ago how to focus, relax and open himself instantly whenever he needed to be ready, but his father liked his rituals, a certain way of doing things.

Max thrust up against the bed, just once, unable to help himself and his father immediately slapped him again, impatient. "Don't move," he said. "I know you know better than that."

Max nodded obediently, angry at himself for the mistake. _Self-control is the difference between winners and losers_ , his father's voice said inside his head, and Max gritted his teeth, determined not to disappoint.

"And I hope I don't have to remind you that you're not to come," his father said. "Later, maybe, if you please me, but not yet."

Sometimes Max wasn't allowed to come at all, but mostly his father was generous and didn't deny him. It was so much more than he deserved, Max knew, and he was always grateful.

The fingers pulled out, leaving Max feeling empty, almost lost. He needed it so badly, desperate to be filled, and tonight his father didn't make him wait, cock at last pushing inside him, the sweet stretch of it so intimately familiar it made Max ache with happiness.

His father's weight settled down on to him, and Max exhaled. He loved this more than anything, the feeling of being utterly overpowered, completely safe and secure. All he had to do was trust, let go, and it would be its own reward. His father looped his forearms under Max's shoulders, bracing himself, panting as he thrust harder, and Max closed his eyes, wanting this to last forever.

His father never rushed through it, and by the time he was done, Max felt limp and weak with use, trying to stay quiet as his father's come spurted into him, burning so hot inside him the pleasure of it was almost unbearable.

He heard his father breathing heavily as he sat up, climbing off the bed. "Well done," he said, stroking Max's hair gently. He didn't say anything further, heading straight into the bathroom and closing the door behind him, but it was more than enough.

Max lay there for a few minutes, unmoving, listening to the sound of the shower running. After a while, he reached behind himself, running one finger gently around the edge of his asshole, hissing softly at the sting of it. He slid two fingers in, the slippery mess of come still pleasantly warm inside him, and he scooped some on to the tips of his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean.

He could hear his father humming to himself in the next room.

Max swallowed, and reminded himself how lucky he was.

**Author's Note:**

> During Ted's Notebook after the Spanish GP, there was a shot of Franz Tost arguing with someone in the outdoor area on top of the Toro Rosso motorhome, and though you could only see them from behind, it was very clearly Jos Verstappen.


End file.
